


Myths and Legends

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series, Relic Hunter
Genre: Crossover, Episode Related, M/M, episode 1x18: The Last Knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-19 02:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: The crossover literally no one asked for, but I couldn't help myself when I saw Relic Hunter was using MacLeod's barge along the Seine. I incorporated the de Molay sword plot of Relic Hunter with all six seasons of Highlander.Years after Duncan MacLeod's death, Methos returns to Paris and finds a pre-Immortal living in MacLeod's barge and befriends him.Or, an excuse to write Hugh Dancy's Michel with Methos.





	Myths and Legends

_Prelude_

Time was relative for most Immortals, but for Methos at age 5000—give or take a century—it was downright archaic. 

Unable to hold the entirety of modern human history in his memory, he’d left strongholds of diaries scattered to the four winds, unable to recall the languages in which he’d written the earliest ones. What did it matter, recording history, when it repeated itself in endless cycles? Civilizations and dictators rose and fell, cities were built and razed. People were born and died, the majority with only a marker stuck in dirt to note their existence. 

Duncan MacLeod had been such a man, once upon a time. Before he’d had his First Death, before he’d embraced his Immortal nature, before he’d picked a fight he couldn’t win and lost his head. 

Methos hadn’t been there when it happened, but Joe Dawson, MacLeod’s Watcher and friend, had. Methos had comforted Joe as best he could, stayed for nearly two years to help with arrangements and the aftermath, but he’d needed to mourn in his own way. 

A three-month trip through the Scottish Highlands, to the MacLeod lands where Duncan lay next to his kinsman Connor, to pay his respects. A six-year friendship over in the blink of an eye, though MacLeod had left his mark. 

~.~

Methos strolled leisurely along the Seine, admiring the bracing wind that stole his breath and reminded him of the Highlands he’d just left. Sunlight glared harshly off the water, half blinding him as he walked a path he hadn’t consciously chosen but didn’t surprise him. 

He passed under the road, his footsteps echoing off the stone archways, and abruptly came to a stop. Breath froze in his lungs as he was assaulted with memories at seeing a barge docked in exactly the same spot as MacLeod’s had been, down just a bit and opposite Notre Dame. 

He cursed his momentary weakness. Everything of MacLeod’s had been sold off or donated over the past two years, so it was likely to be MacLeod’s barge under new ownership. As Methos drew nearer, not only did it look like MacLeod’s barge, but the sensation of another Immortal shivered through him, so faint as to be a whisper. Curious, he stepped to the edge of the plank, but no Immortal came out to greet him. And then he realized: a pre-Immortal, someone who had not had their First Death yet. Someone who might not know what they were. 

His normal flight response was tempered. MacLeod’s influence on him, demanding that he _help_ rather than hide himself away from the world as he’d done for decades. To pass along his knowledge, to stay amid the living and _live_ , rather than survive. 

As Methos hesitated, a young man emerged from the depths of the barge, his back to Methos—the source of the pre-Immortal sensation. As the man turned, Methos’ presence was discovered. 

The Frenchman’s face remained impassive as he asked, “Are you looking for someone?” showing neither concern nor curiosity. 

Clothes matching the darkness of the curly brown hair, the man blended into his surroundings, something Methos understood all too well. With a small smile, Methos explained that his friend used to own a barge docked nearly in the same spot and his wandering feet had unintentionally brought him there. 

Understanding flitted over the young man’s features. “I purchased it last year at an estate auction,” the man volunteered softly, a slight frown of concentration between his brows. Seemingly coming to a decision, the man’s lips lifted into a tentative smile. “You’re welcome to come aboard.” 

“I have no wish to intrude on your day,” Methos quickly dismissed the offer, not wanting to explain what had happened to his friend or why he was trailing after this particular ghost when his entire long life was nothing but ghosts. 

The tentative smile solidified and the young man strode over to stand at the top of the plank. “Michel Previn. Would you care to come inside for a glass of wine?”

With the sun at his back, Previn was nothing more than dark shadows. A shiver went down Methos’ spine. Not a warning, not of danger, but of familiarity. It was similar to what he’d felt when MacLeod had first walked into his flat six years ago. Standing next to MacLeod’s barge, with a pre-Immortal staring down at him…Methos didn’t believe in fate, but this seemed inevitable. 

Inhaling the sharp smell coming off the river, Methos felt something shift and settle inside, and a warmth began to bloom. “Adam Litteken. And yes, I would.”

~.~

It was odd to step down into the barge and see an approximation of MacLeod’s eclectic mix of items from his travels and beloved gifts. From haphazard stacks of comic books to a firepit in the middle of the room and all manner of oddities surrounding them, Previn had MacLeod’s flair for the unconventional but lacked his design style. 

It was habit for Methos’ gaze to sweep a room upon entering it, but he lingered over Previn’s possessions, picking out rarer, more telling items amidst the chaos. The disarray was deliberate, a deflection of something or hiding something of value. 

Previn left him to his perusal, unconcerned as he uncorked a half-filled red and poured two glasses. “I hope this is satisfactory. I rarely get guests nowadays and it’s frowned upon to drink by oneself in the middle of the day.” 

Methos accepted the wine with a small nod and turned back to the paintings stacked against the wall. He idly flicked through them as he stated, “I firmly believe in drinking whenever the mood strikes, societal norms be damned.” He raised his glass in a toast, matching Previn’s smile, and took a sip. The rich flavors burst over his tongue and informed him this was not a cheap bottle, but a rather above-average selection. “Excellent choice.” 

Previn tilted his head in acknowledgement with a small smile that was so reminiscent of Methos’ own habit that Methos had to close his eyes to center himself. Memories were bleeding down the walls and across the floor, filling the space and making it hard for him to breathe. 

He walked over to the other side of the barge, drawn to a small framed print. “Pierre Chevalier,” he murmured, stepping closer. An unusual painting for someone to own and Methos began to see a pattern in Previn’s chaos.

Smirking at Previn’s slight hesitation in commenting, Methos kept his gaze on the painting while he focused the rest of his senses on the young man. “I am a student of history, specifically the Knights Templar.” 

Methos’ smirk grew into a knowing smile. It was many a man’s dream to find the sword of de Molay and it appeared Previn was no different. Methos had given ninety years to the search, himself, before deeming it pointless. His sword was balanced and perfected for him, he had no need to learn another even if it promised invincibility during battle. “The Templar or a particular Templar Grand Master?” he said aloud, turning around to see Previn’s reaction. “Jacques de Molay, perhaps?”

Only the briefest tightening of skin around Previn’s eyes gave him away. “Isn’t it everyone’s desire to find the sword of de Molay?” he asked nonchalantly as he took a sip of wine.

Methos was suddenly alight with curiosity. That tone was too light; too _knowing_. Previn had found it or knew who did. “I’ve heard the guard is encrusted with gems and the pommel made from gold.” 

“Gold would be very poor material for a sword,” Previn dismissed, waving a hand in the general direction of a couch. “Please.” 

Methos sat and crossed his legs, resting his ankle on his knee. “I didn’t say the blade was made of gold, only the pommel. Rumors of that sword have abounded for 700 years.” He smirked. “Allow men to dream, Michel.” 

“I would never deny anyone their dream,” Previn declared softly, the satisfied, calm light shining in his eyes broadcasting that his dream had been fulfilled. 

~.~

“ _Shit_ ,” Methos gasped, holding onto his side, waiting for the Quickening to heal the deep wound he’d been dealt. He’d just barely managed to defeat the challenger after Michel’s head, wanting to end the pre-Immortal’s life before it started.

Spending time with Michel over the last few months had been partially to learn more about the sword and Michel’s research into the Knights Templar, but more to keep an eye on the pre-Immortal. Methos knew it would be easier for a man obsessed with legends to accept that Immortals lived among them, but the shock of learning you were one and the terrible risks that came with it would be harder. 

Only two weeks had passed since Methos had revealed himself as an Immortal when the challenge happened under the archway. The same archway where Methos had confronted MacLeod and begged for his head to be taken, to give his strength to the Highlander to defeat Kalas. 

Stumbling back to the barge after the Quickening, Methos washed the blood from his hands, acutely aware of Michel’s stare on his weakened body. Methos pulled his ruined shirt over his head, holding it out to Michel and fixing him with a wry look. “Could I trouble you to borrow a shirt?” When Michel didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge him in any way, Methos blew out a quiet breath and used his shirt to scrub the dried blood off the now-healed skin on his side. He tossed his shirt into Michel’s bin, turned to lean on the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

Michel blinked rapidly as if coming out of a trance. “What?” he asked, distracted, then his mind seemed to clear. “A shirt. Yes, of course,” he muttered as he quickly headed into the back of the barge, toward his bedroom. 

Michel returned a moment later with a thick sweater and Methos pulled it on, not surprised that it fit him rather well. Michel tended to wear things too big for him, Methos suspected to appear unthreatening. It would serve Michel well during training, as the time had come for Methos to explain why Kamir had threatened to ‘rid the world of all Fledglings’ and protested when Methos intercepted his attack. “Do you have beer?” 

Questions didn’t seem to be the best form of communication that evening, but Methos needed a damn beer if he had to break it to the kid that his life was about to change forever. Giving up on an answer, Methos rummaged in the fridge until he unearthed a bottle and popped the cap, tossing it behind the fridge before taking a long pull. He sighed as the cold numbed his throat, indicating with the bottle that Michel should sit. “You’re going to want a drink and you’re going to want to sit. There’s never a good way to ease into this conversation, but it's best if we have it now before another Immortal shows up.”

Michel swallowed hard, then again, and his paled expression turned a bit ashen. He strode to the fridge and removed a bottle of white wine and swiped a glass from the counter before joining Methos on the couch. “When you told me you were an Immortal, you said it came with a high price. Was that it? What _was_ that?” he demanded on a shaky breath as wine splashed into the glass. 

Methos held the beer bottle between his fingers as he settled back against the cushions. He could go the long way around to explain the events of the evening, or he could jump right into the reason it happened. He was exhausted from the fight and wanted nothing more than to sleep, so he opted for the quick and dirty version. “Immortals aren’t born immortal. We have that potential within us, but it isn’t triggered until we die violently.” He held up a hand, knowing what the next question would be from his extensive history. “If a pre-Immortal dies peacefully in their sleep, they will remain dead. The First Death, the violent death, is your rebirth as an Immortal.” 

Michel retained the shocked, awed expression he had worn since the sword fight and lightning show, but Methos could see the chaotic thoughts swirling behind his eyes. Confusion, worry, fear, excitement and dread all bled into his whispered, “Why are you telling me this?”

Methos kept his gaze on Michel’s as he revealed, “Immortals have many names for those with the potential to be an Immortal but haven’t had their First Death yet. Pre-immortal is the simplest, but other names have been used, such as Fledgling.” 

Michel was intelligent; Methos wouldn’t have bothered with him otherwise, and he was gratified when Michel’s fear slipped from apprehension to acceptance. “That man was after me. I’m one of your pre-Immortals.” 

“Not mine,” Methos replied, softer than he intended. “We aren’t born. We’re all foundlings.”

Michel took a large swallow of wine and remained silent for long moments. “My parents said they adopted me after my family was killed.”

“It’s often easier for adults to tell themselves the lie and pass it along to us, rather than risk us asking questions about our past,” Methos offered quietly. “They could no more answer authorities on how they found you, than answer your questions on where you came from.” 

The light in Michel’s eyes shifted and his voice grew stronger. “But you can.”

That warmth Methos had felt at stepping onto the barge all those months ago returned. “Yes, I can.”

The rest of the evening was filled with a barrage of questions and patient answers, Michel’s natural curiosity overriding his shock at discovering his lineage. 

Methos finished his third beer before explaining, “Your job is to keep your head on your shoulders and the easiest way to do that is to stay away from us. Hide out, travel, never stay in one place for too long.” 

Michel was silent, but Methos could almost hear him thinking. “Is that why that man—the other Immortal—found you? Because you’ve stayed in Paris too long?” 

Methos scowled but couldn’t deny it. “We’re all found eventually. Even those of us living on holy ground can’t stay protected forever.” 

“Holy ground?” Michel said it with such hope that Methos felt his heart breaking. It had been ten years since Darius’ death at the hands of mortal men on holy ground but it would forever burn him; the senseless death and waste of his friend of nearly fifteen hundred years. 

Methos shook off that ghost and elaborated, “The second way to stay safe is to retreat to holy ground. We cannot fight on it. It’s one of our taboos. We don’t have many.” He paused. “Once a challenge has begun, no one is allowed to interfere. Fights always happen one against one. Not all of us fight that way, but that’s how it’s supposed to be.” 

Michel slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe that _any_ of this is how it’s ‘supposed to be’. The ability to live forever but at the cost of fighting others like yourself? It’s cruel.” 

“It was probably an Immortal who coined the phrase, ‘Life isn’t fair’,” Methos mused, though his voice was somber. “Now that you’re aware of your potential, you’ll have to choose how you want your future to unfold. Will you revile what you were born with or will you embrace the opportunity it offers?”

Michel studied him and Methos met his gaze squarely, wanting to establish trust from the student he was taking on. When Michel spoke, it was with that curious hesitation again. 

“There’s something I’d like to show you.” 

~.~

“Incredible,” Methos breathed as he followed Michel into the underground passage beneath the Abbey. 

“The sacred place.” Michel’s whisper was a reverent manifestation of the awe that constantly resided in his eyes. 

“It most certainly is,” Methos answered distractedly, letting his fingers caress the ancient stonework knights, following the loving detail of robes that looked and felt like silk. As beautiful as the statues were, he sensed they were not the reason Michel had insisted he see this hidden place. 

When Michel disappeared into a chamber ahead of him, Methos held back another moment. He’d seen the Templar markings and knew this to be their place to honor their dead, which meant that de Molay would also be honored. Whatever the connection between Michel and de Molay, it was strong, and Methos had seen enough in his lifetime to respect that which he did not understand. 

When he stepped into the other chamber, the scholar in Methos wanted to examine the altar and bible immediately. He was distracted from his quest by Michel looking reverently at a stone knight. 

Carved in chainmail rather than the robes of the other knights, Methos deduced that it was Jacques de Molay. Rounding the statue to stand beside Michel, Methos’s gaze fell to the carefully angled hands designed to hold something. 

“Almost a year ago, we came into this chamber and discovered de Molay,” Michel stated in that same revered tone. “A man tried to remove the sword but de Molay wouldn’t release it to him.” 

Methos didn’t doubt Michel’s words. Though the similarities to Excalibur’s legend lay thick on his tongue, Methos held it, as that _something_ about Michel was rising closer to the surface. 

Michel placed his palm on de Molay’s chest and closed his eyes. Methos could feel the slight energy that passed between the young man and the statue and marveled at the peace that seemed to settle over Michel’s features. “All my life, I’ve felt a connection with de Molay. I could never explain it, but when I touched his sword, when I lifted it in defense of my companions, I knew he’d chosen me to carry it.” 

Michel turned to look at him, eyes blazing with knowledge and determination. “Learning that I was to become Immortal has made my path clear.” 

The fear that Michel would choose to hide himself away on holy ground was very faint, but Methos couldn’t deny that he felt it. “And what path is that?” he asked carefully. 

“When I become Immortal, I shall wield de Molay’s sword to strike down those who would threaten me.” Michel’s tone was ominous, carrying the same weight of righteousness that had plagued MacLeod for over 400 years. 

Methos despaired at the comparison. While he hadn’t been able to affect MacLeod’s judgmental attitude born of centuries of practice, he _could_ influence Michel to be more clear-headed and rational. “You’ll still need to practice and learn,” he cautioned. “There is more to survival than swordplay. There’s mental fortitude, strength of character, cunning and study of your opponent. I will teach you, if you’ll let me.” 

“I will trust you with my life, as you have trusted me with yours,” Michel promised, letting his hand slide away from the stone. He tilted his head and Methos had the distinct impression that Michel was reading his mind. “Your name isn’t Adam.” 

Methos chuckled at the obvious ploy. “It’s the name I’ve chosen for myself in this lifetime,” he replied lightly, letting Michel know without words that the matter was closed. “If you live long enough, you’ll have to change your name many times. Even in this magical time of plastic surgery and medical breakthroughs, an unaging face for 50 years will garner attention that you can’t afford.” 

A teasing smile curved Michel’s lips. “That begs the question: how old are you?” 

Methos answered with an indulgent smile. “That, my friend, is a tale for another time.” 

“I’m a student of history, _Adam_ ,” Michel teased. “I’ve studied your speech patterns and mannerisms and would guess you older than the Knights Templar.”

Methos’s smile grew. “Another time,” he replied lightly, turning his back on Michel in favor of the altar and bible awaiting him. 

~.~

Methos respected Michel’s request that he retrieve de Molay’s sword alone. Upon seeing it, Methos was slightly disappointed. While well cared for and adorned with a few gems, at first glance, it was nothing special. When Michel permitted him to hold it, Methos’ opinion quickly changed. Perfectly balanced, it sang when he cut through the air. 

For Michel, however, it was clear that the sword sang _for_ him. In their practice sessions on the Abbey grounds, Michel handled the sword almost effortlessly despite having no prior experience—indeed, as if it were made for him. 

Methos tested Michel’s balance and precision, and threw in dirty fighting to keep him on his guard. Michel’s confidence grew steadily along with his techniques, learning the masters’ styles and more complex moves. 

“You’re still dropping your shoulder,” Methos observed as he advanced on Michel, driving him backward. 

Their swords clashed as their bodies drew closer together, Michel not resisting as Methos locked their guards between their bodies. With a wicked smile, Michel leaned forward and kissed him, surprising him but not distracting him. “You’ll have to try harder than that,” Methos remarked dryly before shoving Michel to the ground and placing the tip of his sword against Michel’s throat. “Do you yield?” 

A flash of a grin again, then Michel curled up into a crouch and leapt to his feet so quickly that Methos couldn’t follow. 

Methos drew back into a defensive position but couldn’t help but admire the agility and show of strength. “You’re learning.”

“You’re finally teaching something worthwhile,” Michel snapped back breathlessly, raising his sword in an attack position. 

They practiced until Michel couldn’t lift the sword above his shoulders any more, then Methos drove them back to the barge. Pouring a glass of white wine, Methos set it on the counter as Michel showered, then settled on the couch with a beer in hand and his feet propped up on an old steamer trunk.

Toweling his hair dry with one hand, Michel grabbed his glass with the other and sat on the couch next to Methos. “I would very much like it if you showed my possessions more respect,” he commented with a pointed look to Methos’ feet. 

Methos was in a good mood. Michel was improving every week and even learning a few dirty tricks of his own, but an unexpected kiss wouldn’t distract many opponents. He would have to teach Michel better, more unpredictable moves. Methos slouched further down the couch and crossed his feet at the ankles, giving Michel his most annoying grin. “I’m sure you would,” he replied, light and teasing.

Michel dropped the towel over the back of the couch, turning slightly to face him before cradling his head with his hand, resting his elbow on the back of the couch. Eyes that Methos had yet to define the color of studied him, Michel’s natural flirtatious nature mixing with curiosity as he asked, “Why are you never serious?” 

Taking a sip of beer to break the intensity that had risen between them, Methos answered quietly, “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn to let a lot of things go. Levity is highly underrated and seriousness should be left for the scholarly.” 

“We are both scholars,” Michel reminded him, taking a slow sip of wine and flicking his tongue along his lower lip. “My situation is serious, yet you make light of it constantly. Don’t you care as much for my life as I do?” 

It was deliberate trap, set with subtlety and elegance. Too late, Methos realized he had lowered his guard too much and Michel had slipped into the cracks. Cautiously, but in a firm tone, he answered, “I make light of the situation because if you let it consume you, the darkness will take over and I won’t be able to help you. As your teacher, it’s my job to guide you, not just in swordsmanship but in survival. Learn your craft, choose your weapon and grow stronger.” It was an amalgamation of philosophies but it summed up what he was trying to teach Michel. 

“Are you merely my teacher?” Michel’s question was asked lightly but weighted with meaning. 

Methos took a long pull of beer to gather himself, avoiding Michel’s eyes and his own traitorous, awakening feelings. “That’s all I can be,” he answered with steely conviction, not allowing himself to soften his words.

Rather than the hurt he expected to see, Michel took his declaration with casual indifference. “If you prefer a student-teacher relationship, I’ll respect you wishes. But if you should change your mind, would you extend the courtesy of letting me know?” 

“I won’t change my mind,” he argued for the sake of arguing. “But I will tell you if the situation warrants a reevaluation.” 

Eyes full of smoky promise slid over him. “See that you do, old man.” 

Methos was quick to shut down his reactions to that term, but it rattled him just the same. It wasn’t just MacLeod’s and Joe’s nickname for him, it was that Michel was more comfortable needling him about his unknown age. “I look only about ten years older than you,” he reminded Michel gruffly, taking a swallow of beer. 

“Appearances are deceiving,” Michel fired back comfortably. “You’ve let me quiz you about all manner of historical events in trying to guess your age. Your knowledge of history is unparalleled and seemingly unending. I’ve yet to come across a name or battle or ritual that you don’t know something about. And then there’s the manner in which you speak.” 

Methos covertly watched him out of the corner of his eye. Their conversations often blended across topics and centuries, Michel able to keep up with his train of thought with little effort. It was refreshing, but Methos was aware of the danger of knowledge, too. Apprehension shivered down his spine, wondering where Michel was leading the conversation.

Michel set his glass on the trunk carefully and deliberately, as if he was giving himself time to collect his thoughts. His voice took on some of the reverent quality that had vanished over the past few weeks, leaving a sour note in Methos’ mouth. “You don’t speak of history as if you’ve read it in a book. You speak as if you’ve lived it. As if you’d seen gladiators fighting inside the Colosseum. As if you’d experienced the gruesomeness of the Black Death first-hand.” Michel paused and Methos saw indecision shining in his eyes, vocalized in the uncertain quality of his tone. “As if you’d witnessed the building of the Great Pyramids at Giza.”

This didn’t feel like one of Michel’s playful attempts to trick him into revealing his age. This felt like Michel was looking for confirmation of a theory. Methos was torn between dread and relief: the weight of carrying around his secret would be shared with another, but the very real danger of knowing who ‘Adam’ truly was would be laid on Michel’s shoulders. “What leads you to believe that I’m as old as the Pyramids, rather than being incredibly well-read?” Methos deflected calmly.

Michel’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Those who read about subjects and learn the facts don’t often empathize with those living in those times. And even if they do, they don’t sound upset, disgusted, or passionate when they speak of them. They argue those points, but their eyes don’t blaze with anger and disgust.” 

Methos forced himself to maintain eye contact as Michel leaned closer and continued, “Yours do. I felt your disgust at the waste of lives in the fighting rings, but even more than that, I felt your mourning for those forced to compete. Your anger at the ignorance of advanced medical and sanitation practices pinpointed the worst Plague-affected streets and neighborhoods, more exact than any detailed accounting I’ve read.” 

Michel’s excitement dimmed to somber realization. “And the way you speak of the people, as if the corner baker and the widow living above the butcher’s were your friends who succumbed to the Plague. The distant look in your eyes as you described the living conditions of the slave labor in Egypt, their day-to-day hardships, their obedience or death at the hands of the overlords. Those aren’t abstractions out of different readings. Those are detailed observations of one who was there. Therefore, my conclusion is that you were present for all those occurrences, as I’ve yet to find a moment in history where I don’t see you exhibit that personal connection.”

Michel glanced away and Methos started breathing again. For such a _young_ man, Michel was wise far beyond his years. Clever and fiercely intellectual with a curiosity to match, it was no wonder Methos was drawn to him from the start. 

But now he was at an impasse: tell the truth and risk Michel’s head, or lie and risk his friendship. “Before I give you my answer, you need to go into this with your eyes wide open,” he hedged. “If I tell you the truth, I put your life in danger. I’m not exaggerating for the sake of scaring you. I’m warning you of the very real possibility of being hunted down and tortured to reveal what you know about me. If you’re Immortal, you could be kept at the brink of death for decades until you give in. Do you still want to know the truth?” 

Michel paled but his expression remained determined. “If you’re finally prepared to tell me the truth, then I’ll return the favor.” A self-depreciating grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not everything in my collection was acquired by legitimate means.”

Methos wasn’t surprised in the least. Michel’s lifestyle didn’t scream ‘trust fund kid’ yet some pieces Methos had seen bordered on priceless. Michel was very careful about what he allowed others to see about himself. That kind of carefulness was learned and honed due to necessity—Methos had perfected it over his long life. He nodded for Michel to continue, ignoring his beer in favor of hearing about Michel’s sordid past.

“I’ve studied the Knights Templar since I was thirteen. My knowledge became so great that museum directors asked for my opinion on pieces they’d received. My reputation for identifying fakes spread to the darker side of collecting, and I was paid very well for my research and expertise. Not all collectors appreciated my honest opinion of their methods, however, and my life was threatened several times.” Michel’s gaze drifted as he got lost in his memories, fear causing a slight tremor in his voice. “I’ve stolen pieces that were of value to my search for de Molay’s sword, from people who wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. I know it was wrong, but they were just as wrong. I figured I was protecting the sword while they would only sell it to the highest bidder and it would be lost to a private collection forever.” 

The distance left Michel’s eyes and his voice became more animated. “Finding de Molay’s sword was the greatest achievement of my life. The man who tried to claim it first, threatened me and the people I was working with. We never learned who his accomplices were, even after he was sent to jail. I try not to let fear overtake me, but it’s a constant companion at the back of my mind, always alert for a sign of trouble.” 

Methos’ admiration for Michel increased at learning what the young man had been through in his short life. Methos had been on both sides of the law, both sides of right and wrong, and doing the wrong thing for the right reasons was always messy but often necessary. 

Not wanting to dredge up more unpleasant memories for himself or his companion, Methos chose to deflect the seriousness with a light jab. “And you felt no such warning when you met me?” 

The familiar, cheeky grin flashed before fading to a look of contemplation. “You were an enigma, standing at the edge of the river looking as though you’d lost your best friend and found him at the same time. I don’t trust strangers until they prove themselves to me, but I trusted you implicitly. I didn’t know why then, but I think I may have sensed a kindred spirit in you. One Immortal to another.” 

Methos shook his head, not sugar-coating his explanation. “It doesn’t work that way. The rules of the Game are to challenge and win, not to make friends. There are exceptions, but there are far more of us out there whose only goal is to win the Game, and that means killing every other Immortal in the world.” He met and held Michel’s eyes. “At some point in the future, if we’ve both survived, we will have to face each other in combat. And one of us will die.” 

Michel was sober and pensive, studying Methos’ expression. “If all that is to pass, I will know the truth about you now.” 

Methos let his eyes slide closed, ignoring the churning of his stomach as he began to reveal his closest guarded secret. “I have been slave and owner, warrior and healer, hunter and hunted. What I’ve learned over the centuries is that one man can’t make a difference in the world, but he can make a difference in the lives of a very precious few.”

He hadn’t meant to start with his memories of Alexa, but he trusted his instincts to guide him in what Michel needed to know. “A few years ago, I chose to show the world to a dying mortal. She was a beautiful soul who was gone between my heartbeats, but she left her mark on me.” Methos blinked back the gathering tears; making Alexa his seventieth wife had been worth the heartache. “Each soul that I cross paths with leaves an indelible mark. Some for the better, far more for worse. I chose to hide from the Game for over 200 years before allowing MacLeod to find me. I saw in him the potential for a greater man than the rest of us. I was wrong.” 

Michel was enraptured, but Methos was sure his countenance would turn to disgust soon enough. Chest tight with emotion, Methos continued, “Duncan MacLeod was born into the age of chivalry and believed women needed protection, even Immortals. He was a good and decent man, believing that everyone should conform to his set of ideals and morals, no matter what time period they were from. He judged, challenged, and won, taking the heads of dozens of Immortals, including a good friend of mine…and the heads of two people I’d known for over three thousand years.” 

A sad smile tugged at Methos’ lips, his anger and sorrow at his companions’ deaths mellowed to a dull ache. “MacLeod was a righteous man, full of indignation at what he perceived as injustices to his own set of morals. He challenged my friend because he opposed my friend’s differing morals. MacLeod condemned me once he learned the truth of what I’d been so very long ago. He couldn’t comprehend another time when laws were non-existent, when tribes ruled the earth and food was as scarce and sacred as water. Where magic was as common as raids on supplies and Immortals were gods to be feared. I rode with three others for almost a thousand years, taking what we wanted and burning what we didn’t. People cowered in fear when they saw us. They groveled for their lives. They offered cattle so we wouldn’t take their children, but we took both and slaughtered everyone else. We took what we wanted because no one could stop us. It took the rise of civilization to tame us, and then we were humbled into the dirt.” 

Taking a deep breath, Methos met Michel’s wide, shocked eyes. “I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes full of regret and shame over my actions and inactions, poor decisions and blind eyes turned away from injustices because it wasn’t _my_ fight. I’m an Immortal; I was above their petty wars and genocides and politics. I would outlive them all and watch their bones turn to dust.” His lip curled in disgust. “I’m just as much a fool as MacLeod, but he’s dead and I’m still here, still surviving. It’s what I do best.”

Hearing Kronos’ words echo in his head twisted his stomach in a variety of unpleasant ways. Methos had to swallow back bile before he declared, “I was born at the dawn of the written word. I harvested the straw that made the mortar for the Pyramid of Khafre. I witnessed the Roman, Persian and Ottoman Empires rise and fall. I’ve experienced more deaths than anyone else in existence. My identity is a secret known only to one mortal and two Immortals, and now you.” 

He watched the conflicting emotions battle for dominance in Michel’s eyes and his mouth twitch as if to sneer in disgust or frown in pity. Finally settling on a dull, mottled gray, Michel’s eyes bored deep into Methos’ as he asked, “What’s your given name? Do you even remember it?” 

Methos’ surprised bark of laughter startled them both. Of all the things Michel could have said, to ask such a simple, normal question made Methos’ chest ache in an entirely different way. He took a breath and felt how unsteady it was, exhaling it on the words that frightened him to his very core: “My name is Methos.” 

“Methos,” Michel repeated, as if getting a feel for the word. Intense eyes focused on his as Michel shifted closer, one hand still on the back of the couch. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Methos,” Michel murmured before sliding his mouth over Methos’, a delicate, tentative touch that grew bolder with each second. 

Michel slowly moved over him until he settled in his lap, his hands on the back of the couch behind Methos’ head. Methos carefully held the beer bottle away as his arms wrapped around Michel’s back, sinking deeper into the kiss. 

It felt so good to let go, to allow himself to connect with someone in such a way that Methos ignored the voice at the back of his head telling him this was a bad idea. The voice that reminded him not fifteen minutes ago he’d said he couldn’t be Michel’s lover. 

Michel nipped at his upper lip and whispered, “Is this changing your mind?” 

With an impatient sound, Methos bit down on Michel’s lower lip before covering Michel’s laughing mouth, resuming the kiss. He didn’t want to think about consequences, or the morning, or the next millennia spent avoiding his ex or chained to his side. He just wanted to feel and explore the muscular, supple body that was rubbing eagerly against his own. 

“Bedroom?” he queried, surprised at how breathless he sounded.

“Too far.” Michel started to lean backwards, forcing Methos to follow to keep kissing him. 

“This couch won’t hold us,” Methos protested, stretching behind Michel to find the floor and deposit his beer, leaving both hands free to sink into Michel’s still-wet hair and angle his head for another kiss. 

Michel broke the kiss, breathing hotly along Methos’ jaw as he gasped, “It’s stronger than it looks.” 

Not wanting to waste his first exploration of Michel on a cramped couch, Methos grabbed Michel’s ass and maneuvered them until he could stand, supporting Michel who now stared at him with lust-glazed, heavy-lidded eyes. “Are you going to fuck me?” Michel asked, his voice ragged and breathless. 

“Is that what you want?” Methos replied, his voice strained. He carried them back to the bedroom, carefully but quickly, because although he was strong, Michel had packed on muscle in the last few months and was far heavier than he looked. 

Before he deposited Michel on the bed, Methos caught the flash of nervousness in his expression. Crawling over Michel, Methos nuzzled at his neck, sucking kisses down to his open shirt collar. “We’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with. I just want to be with you.” 

“Do you mean that?” Michel asked, a trace of fear in the depths of his gaze. 

Methos assured him with a light kiss. “I gave up taking what I wanted a very, very long time ago. I find more pleasure in giving and receiving with a willing partner. Are you willing?”

The fear fled and Methos’ head was grabbed and lips guided to parted lips, fierce and desperate in their desire. 

Methos settled comfortable over him, one leg between Michel’s thighs, Michel’s left leg slowly coming up to bend at the knee, pressing against Methos’ hip. As they continued to kiss, hands wandered beneath shirts and up chests and backs, occasionally slipping along a waistband but not dipping too far inside. 

It was a slow, almost tentative exploration, testing boundaries and learning the touches that caused an indrawn breath or a soft groan. 

Shirts were discarded and mouths drifted downward, teasing tongues and nipping teeth drawing sharper breaths and quicker moans. 

Feeling Michel’s hardness against his own but sensing no urgency in Michel’s actions, Methos began to suspect that Michel hadn’t been with a man before, at least not to this level of intimacy. 

He continued to let Michel set the pace, content to explore the expanse of skin beneath his mouth, smooth pecs with a few hairs he tugged carefully with his lips, causing hands to tighten in his hair and hold him there until the skin was red and slick with his saliva. 

He kissed the flushed skin from Michel’s chest up to his throat, warm and slippery with sweat. Michel’s hands slid down his back, gripping at his ass before sliding back up to his shoulders, using them for leverage at the first roll of Michel’s hips up into Methos’. 

“I need…” Michel groaned, swollen lips parted and eyes wild with agonizing desperation. 

Methos pressed his hips down in a gentle rub, unsurprised at the low whine at the back of Michel’s throat. Methos was aching in his jeans and he’d had centuries to learn self-control; Michel was a healthy 25-year-old male. 

Methos shifted up on his knees, giving himself just enough room to get a hand between them and cup Michel’s erection. “Do you need my hand?” 

The high-pitched, painful groan and forceful thrust nearly undid Methos, but Michel’s head shook in the negative. “Mouth,” he whispered as he pushed gently at Methos’ shoulders. 

Kissing his way down Michel’s chest, he dipped his tongue into the belly button, tasting the salt of sweat, while his fingers undid the button and zip of Michel’s jeans. Methos pulled the jeans and underwear off and kissed his way back up the strong calves and thighs, murmuring assurances into Michel’s skin until he reached the juncture of Michel’s thighs. 

Thick and hard and so red it was turning purple, Methos set to work relieving Michel of his need. Every hitch of breath, every scratch of nails along his shoulders or scalp, every time Michel tightened his thighs around Methos’ head, Methos increased the suction and rhythm. Without warning, Michel curled up in orgasm, gasping pained breaths and coating Methos’ tongue, throat and chin with his release. 

As Michel fell back down onto the bed, wheezing in painful-sounding gulps of air, Methos located his shirt and wiped himself off, settling back to wait. Michel undoubtedly had ideas of what he wanted to do and Methos wouldn’t disappoint him. 

Michel recovered his breath enough to rise up on his elbows and stare guilty at the bulge in Methos’ jeans. “I can’t do that for you,” Michel noted with only a slight tremor in his voice. “My boyfriend and I were only sixteen and didn’t get further than rutting against each other.”

Methos leaned over and gave him a languid kiss. “You don’t have to do anything. I can take care of myself.” 

Determination flared hot and bright in Michel’s eyes as he sat up fully, reaching out for Methos’ jeans. “I can hold a dick,” he asserted, face flushed with more than the exertion of his climax. 

Methos shuddered as Michel’s hand cautiously curled around his erection. “Wait. Let’s try something,” he said, taking Michel’s hand out of his open jeans. He instructed Michel to sit up against the headboard with his legs splayed. Shucking off the rest of his clothes, Methos settled with his back against Michel’s chest, careful not to rub against his sensitive dick. 

Before Methos could say anything, hands were around his waist, one gripping his erection firmly while the other teased his balls. Groaning softly, Methos let his head fall back to Michel’s shoulder as Michel worked him, obviously comfortable and confident now that he was in a familiar position.

Methos dug his fingers into Michel’s thighs as his climax built, Michel’s hot breath against his shoulder and the press of lips enough to send him over the edge. 

When awareness returned, Methos felt arms loosely around his chest and a mouth pressed against the side of his neck. Overly warm, sticky and sweaty, he chuckled at the lightness that filled his chest. “That was unexpected,” he mused and instantly regretted it as he felt Michel’s arms stiffen around him. He covered Michel’s hands with his own, overlapping their arms. “Not in a bad way. Simply unexpected. Nothing was meant by it.” 

“You said you didn’t want this sort of relationship with me,” Michel reminded him, Methos gutted by the dejected tone. 

He carefully maneuvered himself around to face Michel, cupping his jaw and forcing Michel to meet his eyes. “I said I could only be your teacher, not that I didn’t _want_ this,” he emphasized with a gentle brush of his knuckles along Michel’s jaw. “The teacher-student relationship is intimate on its own without adding sex to it.” 

His fingers lightly brushed down Michel’s throat and chest until his hand landed on Michel’s thigh, his eyes fixated on the bruises forming from his hands. “Every challenge your student makes or accepts, you fear for their life. If they lose, you’ve not only failed to properly teach them, but you’ve lost the person you were closest to in the world. I swore I would never allow myself to be that vulnerable again.” 

He shivered as his hand was picked up and a kiss placed to the palm. “I should’ve given this more thought before I kissed you,” Michel berated himself. “For me, a lifetime is still 100 years. The concept of living for several centuries, of being alive for a thousand years, it doesn’t seem real to me. I don’t know if my First Death will make it more real, or if it will take a few hundred years for it to truly mean something to me. I only know that right now, in this life, I want you as more than my teacher.” 

Methos curled his fingers around Michel’s and leaned in for a soft, trembling kiss. “I can’t offer you promises. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I want you to be free to pursue whomever you want, whenever you want. This will remain casual and that’s all I can give you, but it’s yours for as long as you want it.” 

Disappointment glittered in Michel’s eyes but his voice was strong as he replied, “Then that’s what I’ll take, for as long as you want me.” 

~.~

For several months Methos was on edge, waiting for the inevitable. One Immortal had found Michel; others would sense him and either try to behead him before his First Death, or want to bring it to him personally and then challenge him for his pitiful Quickening. 

Michel seemed unconcerned, dutifully practicing and growing more confident in his swordplay and in the bedroom. Methos had forgotten how enthusiastic young men could be, Michel’s quicker refractory period leaving him exhausted but content. 

Methos was attempting to read an article on the latest archaeological discovery in southern England, but a slight niggling at the back of his mind wouldn’t let him concentrate. Michel had gone to a party the night before and Methos didn’t want to interfere with the kid’s good time, so he’d gone back to his apartment for the night, assuring Michel that he was free to bring someone back to the barge. 

Restless and tired of ignoring his instincts, Methos shrugged on his coat, checked his sword, and headed down to the river. The lack of pre-Immortal sense told him Michel wasn’t on board the barge, but something drove Methos to explore the area. 

Underneath the archway, he picked up the faint sense of pre-Immortal and pulled open the metal door, drawing his sword before stepping into the dark. A faint light down the corridor cast gloomy shadows on the stone corridor, solid shadows marking doorways cut into the stone. 

He moved silently and swiftly, letting his senses guide him to the light spilling into the corridor from a partially open doorway. Inside was a treasure trove of medieval artifacts, artwork, tapestries—and Michel. Slumped over a throne, held up only by the ropes around his chest and arms, blood sluggishly dripping from his hand to add to the pool beneath him. 

Methos scanned the room once to make sure they were alone, then checked Michel’s pulse. Thready and weak, with too-pale skin marked with deep cuts and bruises. “Michel, can you hear me? Michel!” he called, grabbing Michel’s head and tipping it back.

Eyelashes fluttered but didn’t open. One eye swollen shut, mouth bloody, dark bruises on his cheeks and jaw—it looked like Michel had been expertly worked over. Methos traced the dripping blood to a shallow cut high on Michel’s inner wrist, intended to make him bleed out over excruciating hours. 

This wasn’t a violent death. If Michel died from his injuries, there would be no coming back. The only saving grace was that whoever did this, didn’t want to end Michel’s life quickly by slitting his throat. 

Even though they’d talked about different scenarios for Michel’s First Death, they had all been accidents and how Methos would have to hide the body until Michel came back. They hadn’t discussed if something like this happened, and even though Methos _knew_ Michel wanted to come back as an Immortal, he wanted to hear it from Michel.

He didn’t care that his voice was shaking when he explained, “Michel, this isn’t a violent death, although it probably feels like one. I don’t know that I can get an ambulance here in time or that you’ll recover from the blood loss. You need to tell me if it’s time. Do you want to become an Immortal now or take a chance on dying forever?” 

Michel’s eyelashes fluttered again and his lips moved. It was barely an exhale of breath, but Michel’s intention was clear as he uttered the word, “Kill.” 

Not wasting time, Methos wrapped his fingers around the dagger already stained with Michel’s blood and slid it into Michel’s heart, letting the body fall against his as it drew its last breath. 

Settling Michel’s body back into the throne, Methos explored the other rooms, checking for signs of someone else still in the area or evidence of what they were after. Not finding anything except a couple of bloody footprints, he was nevertheless relieved to find a room with living accommodations. 

Filling a bowl with water, he grabbed a handful of towels and set about cleaning Michel as much as possible before carrying his body back to the cot. Methos settled in to watch over Michel, determined to see him wake up and vowing that whoever did this would pay with their lives. 

~.~

Methos had seen many Immortals wake up from their First Death and logically knew the times were unpredictable, but by the fifteenth hour, he was nervous. Michel’s injuries were all healed, he just needed to take that first breath. 

Methos had found an extra change of clothing in the old locker at the foot of the cot and dressed Michel after carefully washing all the blood off of his body. He’d studied the wounds, memorized the angle of the cuts and determined that at least two people had tortured Michel, one of them left handed. Whether they were Immortal couldn’t be known as Michel wouldn’t have been be able to sense an Immortal. 

“Wake up, damn you,” he hissed, losing patience. Methos feared that someone had found out that Michel knew him and tortured him for information on the oldest Immortal, but it could have just as likely been someone from Michel’s past. Only Michel could answer his questions, and he was stubbornly refusing to take that first breath. 

Finally, there was a soft wheeze, then a stronger inhale. Michel’s chest rose with the sound, his eyes opening as he began to hyperventilate, clutching at his chest and holding his head. “What?” he gasped, looking around wildly in confusion. “What happened?”

“It’s okay,” Methos whispered to him quietly, knowing the headache Michel was experiencing was actually the warning sense of his nearness to another Immortal. “Just breathe.” 

The unsteady breaths evened out and tears began to shine in Michel’s eyes. “It’s happened,” he whispered, his fingers closing around the wrist that had been cut, rubbing over the smooth skin again and again. “I survived.” 

“And you will continue to survive,” Methos said in the same quiet voice. “There’s no rush to do anything but sit here and breathe.” 

Hysterical, soft laughter warned him of Michel’s state of mind. Methos thought he’d prepared Michel as well as he could for the First Death, but the reality of it was, nothing could prepare you for dying and coming back. 

He settled back in his chair and let Michel continue to count his pulse, to rub fingertips along the now-healed wounds inflicted by his attackers, to smile and frown and come to terms with his new life. 

When Michel’s fingers stroked over the bedding, the metal edges of the cot and then his clothing with a mild look of surprise, Methos had to break his silence. “What is it?” 

Startled as though he’d forgotten Methos’ existence, Michel focused on him. “I thought it would feel different. I thought I’d have different senses. Nothing’s changed, but everything’s changed.” 

“You are still who you were yesterday,” Methos confirmed. “The only difference is, your body will heal from most wounds now, and you’ll have to be a bit more vigilant when you go out.” 

A flash of panic crossed Michel’s features. “My sword. I need my sword!” 

“And you will have it, once we go over a few things,” Methos assured him. “You have a headache. A dull ache at the back of your head?”

Michel’s hand immediately went to the area, rubbing gently. “Yes. How did you know?”

“That’s your sense of another Immortal,” he explained. “That’s me you’re sensing. The further away we physically get, the lesser the ache. We’ll test distance later on, so you can learn what the first sensation feels like before an Immortal gets too close. But for now, I think it’ll be enough to get you back to the barge and let you sleep.” 

Michel’s eyes darted around nervously. “I want my sword.” 

Methos withdrew his sword and handed it to Michel. “You may carry mine until we get back to the barge. Your sword is still there?” While Methos had never actually seen where Michel hid it, Michel always carried it onto the barge when they returned from practice at the Abbey. 

To his surprise, Michel shoved himself unsteadily to his feet. “ _No_. I didn’t tell them where it was…” he stumbled out the door, Methos quickly following to make sure Michel didn’t fall over. 

They walked back toward the room Methos had found Michel in, but instead of going into that room, Michel crossed to the door opposite and pulled it open. Inside was completely empty, but Michel confidently walked over to the far wall and pressed a stone high above his head, and it slid out several inches. Michel tugged it until it was free, then reached into the hole and pulled out the sword. 

Once the sword was in his hand, the wild look left Michel’s eyes. His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against the flat of the blade, as if drawing strength from it. 

Methos didn’t doubt it was true; Michel and de Molay had been intricately linked since Michel had shown him the Templar’s sacred place. Perhaps de Molay had been an Immortal after all. It was a theory Methos had pondered over the centuries, but he’d found no evidence in the Watcher records. There were many reasons why no records might exist: befriending his Watcher, as MacLeod had done; killing his Watcher; or de Molay had been so careful that the Watchers had never caught on to his being Immortal. 

The mystery would have to wait, as Michel sagged against the stone wall in pure exhaustion, his sword arm dropping heavily to his side. Methos caught the sword before it hit the floor, then caught Michel before he joined it. “We’re going back to the barge where you can rest properly. I’ll keep watch over you.” 

Michel was as dead a weight leaning against him as he’d been when Methos carried him into the small living quarters, but Methos bore it stoically. He was wary of any movement in the shadows, not knowing if it was man or Immortal who had tortured Michel. It wasn’t until they were safely on the barge, Michel curled up asleep in bed, that Methos allowed his guard to drop slightly. 

Exhausted after being up almost 30 hours, Methos grabbed some bread and cheese and settled on the couch with his sword before him on the table, mentally preparing himself for another long day of vigilance. 

Less than an hour later, he heard movement from the bedroom. Taking up his sword, he stole along the wall quietly. He knew only a small porthole led into the room from the outside, but he hadn’t thoroughly checked out the room or the barge after depositing Michel in bed. Cursing his inattention, Methos slipped into the bedroom and saw Michel sleeping fitfully, but unharmed. Securing the room and satisfying his restlessness that no one had gotten in, Methos brushed back the sweaty curls from Michel’s forehead. As if sensing his presence, Michel immediately settled and sighed, his pinched features smoothing to peacefulness. 

Giving up all pretense, Methos leaned his sword against the small bedside table, slipped in behind Michel and pressed up against his back. Lulled by the steady rise and fall of Michel’s chest beneath his hand, Methos drifted to sleep. 

~.~

Methos woke up slowly, aware of being watched. He remembered where he was and opened his eyes to find Michel staring at him with too-bright blue eyes.

“You stayed,” Michel stated, as if he hadn’t expected it. 

Methos told himself his voice was rough from sleep and not the emotional punch of Michel’s declaration. “Even though I don’t remember my First Death, I know what it’s like to wake up disoriented and alone after a death.”

His face cradled in Michel’s hands, the kiss wasn’t unexpected, but the sheer _gentleness_ of it, the outpouring of love shook Methos to his very core and he pulled away, holding onto Michel’s wrist gently. 

“Don’t,” he cautioned, trying and failing to harden his voice. He sounded more desperate than offended and Methos hated that he couldn’t control his emotions better. “Don’t mistake my concern for anything other than a teacher looking out for his student.” 

Michel yanked his wrist from Methos’ light grip. “Do all teachers sleep in their students’ beds, holding them so the nightmares of their First Death don’t drown them in their sleep?” Michel was angry and hurt; it was easy for Methos to see that, but he couldn’t comfort him like he wanted.

“I told you the first time we slept together that I could never allow myself to be vulnerable to another Immortal again,” Methos reminded him. “I care for you Michel, but that’s all I’ll ever be able to give you. For your protection as well as my own.” 

“You’re afraid to, you mean,” Michel countered angrily. “I’ve been your lover for months. We practice as equals now, rather than teacher and student. Now that I’m Immortal, we _are_ equals.” 

Cruelly, deliberately, Methos forced a dark, grim smile to his face. “You’ll never be my equal, you arrogant _child_. Get dressed,” he hissed, rolling out of bed and picking up his sword to point it at Michel. “I’ll show you just how _unequal_ we are.” 

Despite the fear in his eyes, Michel raised his chin defiantly and Methos felt his gaze on his back as he walked out of the bedroom. 

~.~

The grounds at the Abbey were slippery from the rain the night before, making this much more dangerous for Michel. Methos was aware his temper and fear had gotten the better of him, but Michel needed to learn just how unprepared he was to face an Immortal who wasn’t holding back, who wasn’t teaching and guiding him, but was fighting for his life.

Methos compensated for the slick grass and rocks beneath his feet as he advanced, hating the startled fear in Michel’s eyes but knowing this lesson was the most important one he could teach. 

Michel slipped and fell to one knee numerous times, once onto his back, and each time, Methos was there, pressing the advantage. But Michel was quick to regain his footing, blocking downward slashes and balancing himself carefully before the next blow. 

It was too far along in the morning before Methos realized Michel wasn’t attacking, only defending. 

“You’re supposed to be fighting me, not merely defending yourself,” he spat, finally drawing first blood when the tip of his sword grazed Michel’s upper arm. 

“I won’t fight you,” Michel answered, his voice echoing against the stone ruins. “I can’t.”

“Your sentimentality will get you killed,” Methos hissed as he lunged sideways, swinging at Michel’s legs and slicing into his calf. 

Michel hobbled backward, pain draining the color from his face, yet the determined set of his jaw remained. “I can sense that you’re holding back. Not like when you were teaching me, but out of fear. Afraid of what you’re capable of if you truly let go and _fight_.” 

The words stung, cutting deeper than any sword could reach, but Methos maintained his indifferent, cold mask. He laughed bitterly. “You can’t taunt me into rushing headlong into making a mistake, little boy. I know what I’m capable of if I let myself go completely, and this corner of the world would never look the same if I did.” He forced another dark smile and felt his mask cracking with the effort. He knew the effect that smile had on other Immortals he’d faced, and Michel’s reaction was no different: terror. True and honest terror at facing something foreign, something otherworldly. Something from another time. 

He swung and Michel blocked, though the sword blades slid downward until the tips brushed the ground. Before Michel could pull his sword back and regroup, Methos pulled his dagger from his boot and jabbed it into Michel’s stomach. The look of surprise was quickly overtaken by pain and Michel dropped to his knees, staring up at him in shock.

Tears were in Michel’s eyes as well his voice as he asked brokenly, “You would kill what you love?” 

Methos set his mouth in a grim line, biting back the comforting words that threatened to spill out. “I have before. I’ll do it again if it’s a choice between my head or theirs.” 

“You’re a monster,” Michel gasped as he doubled over, falling onto the grass. 

Methos crouched next to him, holding Michel’s head up so he could look into his eyes. “I’m a survivor. It’s better you learn now what that means. When we’ve gone our separate ways and meet again, I want you to remember this moment, this feeling of betrayal, and let it burn within you.” 

As the light left Michel’s eyes and his Immortal buzz faded to nothing, Methos collapsed in on himself and allowed the rage and fear he hadn’t permitted himself to feel to pour out in hot, silent tears. 

When Michel gasped back to life, Methos was sitting on the large, flat stone that led to the underground passages, his expressionless mask firmly back in place. Both swords lay on the stone next to him, just beyond his reach.

Michel rubbed at his stomach, obviously feeling for the wound that wasn’t there, and then he looked up and around, locking gazes with Methos. 

Rather than the expected hatred and disgust, Methos saw only sadness. “You live with such pain and heartache that you can’t allow yourself to hope. You aren’t a monster to be feared. You’re a monster to be pitied. I could love you, still, if you thought yourself worthy of it.” 

The rush of emotion was almost too quick for Methos to stop it, but he fought against it, forced it back to its cage and secured the door. “I have loved far deeper than you could ever hope to experience in a hundred lifetimes,” he bit out between clenched teeth. “I have dreamt and wept and hoped for four thousand years. No one can comprehend what my life has been, what I have survived, what I have _lived_. Especially you,” he sneered, digging the phantom knife deeper into Michel’s wound. “You claim you can love me, but you’ve only known what I’ve allowed you to see of me for two years. I’ve lived for _five thousand_. How can you love something that you can’t possibly hope to understand?”

Michel pushed himself to his feet, then began walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “We’re still human. We all have the same basic needs: food, shelter, understanding and love. Even if I can never fully understand you, that doesn’t preclude my ability to love you.” 

Methos held himself still as Michel cupped his jaw, fingers trailing over his cheek. “You fear losing the one you love to another so much that you would kill them yourself. To keep them with you forever.” Though Methos didn’t feel any change in his expression, warmth and understanding softened Michel’s features. “I understand how Quickenings work. I know you take the other’s essence into yourself. What better way to honor your love than to keep them alive as long as you live?” 

Methos didn’t know he was crying until Michel swiped a thumb over his cheek, smearing the wetness across his skin. Confident, gentle lips covered his and Methos felt everything dissolving around him, from the ruins to the trees to the air, leaving only Michel. 

The cold stone was at his back, Michel’s warm body pressed against his front, and Michel’s heated declaration weighed heavily on his heart: “I won’t deny myself any longer. I love you as you are today, as you were in the past, as you will be in the future. Our destinies were written long before our first meeting. You were meant to find me, as I was meant to find de Molay’s sword. I will protect you with my last breath, which will be your honor to take.” 

It hurt to breathe. Methos clung to Michel’s arms, gasping for air that seared his lungs, unable to see or hear anything other than the frantic, terrified pounding of his heart. “No,” he pled, then stronger, “ _No_.” But he was pulling Michel closer and kissing him and their hands were fumbling with their jeans until they were rutting against one another, clutching at one another, rushing to climax.

Methos cradled the back of Michel’s head where it lay on his chest, curls brushing against his chin. He stared up at the dull gray sky, clouds threatening to unleash more rain on them at any moment, and felt his stomach twist. “I can’t promise the same,” he admitted quietly, fingers tightening briefly in Michel’s hair. “My will to survive surpasses everything else. If you’re challenged, I won’t interfere. If it comes to a choice between my head or yours, I will sacrifice you every time. I will mourn you, but I will let you die. Can you love someone who can do that?” 

He didn’t dare hope, but Michel had already proven his willingness to die rather than fight him. When Michel’s head lifted and their eyes met, Methos knew the love shining back at him would forever haunt him. 

“I already do.”

The affection in Michel’s eyes dimmed. “But can you allow yourself to love me, knowing you will sacrifice me?” 

~.~

Michel’s question rattled inside his chest, a constant ache he couldn’t chase away with beer or exercise. He practiced with his sword until his muscles were watery and his hands unable to hold the grip, yet the ache remained. 

He could see the hurt concealed in Michel’s expression whenever he declined to stay the night, which was more frequent than before Michel’s First Death. But Methos was a survivor, and surviving meant protecting himself. If that meant protection _from_ himself, he would do it, no matter the cost to his own happiness.

And Michel was his happiness. Methos found no pleasure in reading art history articles without Michel to debate the accuracy of the find. They no longer practiced together, though Methos knew Michel was diligent in his study of fighting techniques. He had grown accustomed to Michel’s company, and his own was cold and bitter. 

Stepping down into the barge one late afternoon, he caught Michel polishing the edge of his sword, the methodical sweep of the blade over the whetstone mesmerizing no matter who performed the action. 

Michel knew he was there; the presence of another Immortal was unmistakable, but Michel continued to inspect and wipe down the sword, only acknowledging Methos’ presence after he’d placed the sword on its hanger on the wall. 

“Are you looking for someone?”

The question threw Methos back two and a half years, when he first laid eyes on the pre-Immortal emerging from the depths of the barge. His voice betrayed his emotional state as he choked out, “You.”

Michel turned to him, not bothering to hide the defeated, dejected weariness that had grown steadily over the past few weeks. “I’ve been right here,” Michel noted in a flat monotone. 

“You shouldn’t wait for me,” Methos scolded, harsher than he intended. “You have an Immortal life to live. Places to see, people to meet. The world is yours.” 

Anger flashed in Michel’s eyes, the most life Methos had seen from him in awhile. “The world isn’t what I want, but I’ve been denied what it is I do want.” A thick swallow and Michel was back under control, eyes dull and gray. “Why do you bother coming here? Neither of us are getting what we want from each other. Maybe it’s best if we go our separate ways now.” 

The “ _No!_ ” that burst from Methos was instinctual and desperate. The barest flash of emotion passed in Michel’s eyes before being carefully hidden away, and Methos felt its loss acutely. “I miss our academic debates. I miss your flirting and dry sense of humor. I miss hearing your opinions on history and art. I miss how your smile spreads from your lips to your entire face, lighting you from within. I miss waking up and not having your breath on my neck. I miss…you.” 

Michel left him hanging, heart exposed and bleeding on the floor. After agonizing minutes, the walled-off expression softened. “You weren’t expecting to.”

Methos knew a lie now would destroy them forever. “I expected it to diminish, not get stronger.” 

Michel took a hesitant step forward. “You miss me?”

“Yes,” Methos breathed.

“Do you love me?” Michel asked the question that had plagued Methos for weeks, months, and he closed his eyes against the sight of Michel’s anxious, nervous expression.

“You know I do,” he whispered, afraid to say the words and equally afraid not to.

A warm, dry hand palmed his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheek. “I need to hear it.” 

A hitch in his breath signaled his surrender. “I love you,” he damned himself, meeting the awkwardly angled mouth and correcting to a smooth, deep kiss, sliding his arms around Michel and holding on tight. 

Their bodies joined together for the first time, Michel pressing inside Methos after careful instruction and embarrassed inexperience was overcome. The connection Methos had felt at seeing Michel for the first time rose within him, between them, and he placed his hand over Michel’s heart. Tears thickened Michel’s lashes as he bent down to kiss Methos, changing the angle of his thrusts and driving Methos to orgasm, Michel a few helpless seconds after him. 

They lay unspeaking in the tangle of sweaty sheets, catching their breaths between kisses, hands sliding over skin as if to prove the other was really there. 

“Move in with me,” Michel said between light kisses to Methos’ neck, making his way down to the prominent collarbone.

Methos smiled but held back his chuckle, not wanting to disturb the perfect moment. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” 

His laughter joined Michel’s as they giggled into each other’s necks, carefree, happy kisses eventually shifting to more purposeful, sensual ministrations. 

~.~

Methos was on his way back to the barge when he heard the unmistakable sounds of swords clashing. He broke into a run, forgetting his promise to not interfere and let Michel die as he withdrew his sword, coming upon the scene beneath the archway.

He couldn’t see very well in the semi-darkness, but as the two figures turned, Methos saw the woman Michel was fighting but didn’t recognize her. 

“Stay back,” the woman called out, but it was Michel’s, “Don’t,” that stayed Methos’ hand. 

It was clear that Michel was struggling, not with defending himself but attacking. Methos’ heart clenched in his chest—it was MacLeod and Kristin all over again, a chivalrous nature that would be the death of Michel. He wanted to shout out instructions, encouraging words, covert tips on how to take the woman down, but instead, he let his chilling voice ring out, “If he dies, you die. His Quickening belongs to me.”

‘What is he to you?” the woman asked as she sliced across Michel’s forearm. 

“My lover,” Methos answered at the same time Michel said, “My teacher.”

The shift in the air heartened Methos. Michel began to press his advantage, making a few attacks but retreating quickly. “Can you take both of us?” Michel taunted, circling warily. “When you’re helpless in my Quickening, it’ll only take him one swing to remove your head.” 

“You want to be together so badly? I’ll happily take your lover’s head, too,” she taunted, stepping forward and swinging low at Michel’s feet. 

A sharp hiss as blood welled from Michel’s right ankle, hobbling him and freezing Methos to the spot. He couldn’t watch Michel die. He couldn’t interfere. His indecision was taken from him when Michel crouched low, slipped a small dagger from his boot beneath his jeans and drove it into the woman’s abdomen. 

Michel was at an odd angle to take her head, but he swung upward, cutting into her neck and falling sideways with her body. Methos stepped back as the Quickening began, Michel’s anguished cries slicing into him but unable to do anything to help. 

When the lightning stopped, Methos rushed forward and cradled Michel’s head in his lap. Michel clutched at him, body shaking and sweating as he started to retch. Methos held him carefully as Michel threw up, the shock of the Quickening too much for him to handle. 

Methos intended to find out the woman’s name and research her at the Watchers, assuming she didn’t have a Watcher on her already. Methos hadn’t sensed anyone else in the area, but some Watchers were better trained than others and knew to observe from hotel windows or use binoculars at a distance. Whether or not the woman had a Watcher, Methos didn’t feel it was safe in Paris any more. He needed to move on, but he needed Michel to agree to go with him. 

Steadier now and no longer heaving, Methos helped Michel to his feet and escorted him to the barge, where Michel went immediately to the bathroom to clean up. 

Methos laid Michel’s sword on the counter, the blood of his first successful challenge wetly shining in the light. He wanted to clean it for Michel, but this was part of their life and Michel would have to do it at some point. 

A warm presence at his back, then arms encircled his waist and Methos felt the press of Michel’s head between his shoulder blades. “It wasn’t like I expected,” Michel admitted in a small voice, too small for someone who had just won against a much older opponent. 

Methos turned around carefully and rested his hand at the back of Michel’s neck, tucking his young lover into the crook of his neck. “The fight or the Quickening?” 

Silence for another moment, then, “The Quickening, I suppose. Hearing you talk about their essence joining yours sounded almost spiritual, but it felt more like a savage invasion. All her memories and feelings, pouring into me at once…” Michel gripped Methos’ arms tightly, just for a second, then let go. “It was overwhelming. She was everything and I was gone.” 

“I’ve heard the same from other Immortals’ first Quickening,” Methos assured him. “You don’t know what to expect and the flood of emotion can be terrifying, but trust that you know yourself and hold on to your beliefs. That will see you through.” 

Michel pulled away from him but wouldn’t look up. “I don’t want to experience that again.” The note of finality in Michel’s tone felt like a razor sharp needle sliding into Methos’ heart. 

“You must defend yourself,” he insisted. 

Michel lifted his head, eyes locking on Methos’ and the determination within them was staggering. “I want to live on holy ground. At least for awhile. I need to learn who I am, now that I’ve taken a life.” 

“You are who you have always been,” Methos said quietly, but in his heart, he knew that Michel was too much like the Knights who fought to defend others, not themselves. 

Michel’s smile was but a ghost of the one Methos loved, sorrowful and resigned. “I’ve changed so much in the past year. I haven’t given it much thought, but now I need to consider who I want to be in this life.” 

It was very hard for Methos not to see where Michel’s thought process was going, and even harder to accept it, but he had no choice. Not if he wanted Michel to return to him. “You need to be alone. At the Abbey?” Methos questioned, knowing he had guessed right when Michel pressed his lips together and looked away. 

“I’m not rejecting you,” Michel promised. “I still love you. I just need to do part of this on my own, then I’ll return to you.” 

Methos tightened his hold on the back of Michel’s neck, a delicate squeeze, then kissed the top of his head. “I’ll drive you to the Abbey when you’re ready. And you will call me when you’re ready to come home.” 

The gratitude shining from Michel’s eyes was nearly his undoing. “Yes.” A soft kiss. “Yes,” Michel murmured, deepening the kiss. Methos wanted to drown in him, take him to the floor and imprint Michel’s skin with his mouth, his teeth, his touch, so that Michel wouldn’t be able to forget him in his absence. 

As if sensing Methos’ need, Michel dragged one of Methos’ hands to his ass, rubbing the palm over the seam of his jeans. The touch was unmistakable in its intentions, and the flare of desire shining in Michel’s deep green eyes confirmed what Michel wanted him to do. 

Methos took his time undressing, kissing, touching, leaving Michel incoherent in his lust. He had chosen to take Michel on his back, to lessen the strain and to watch the emotions play across his face. 

Michel was not passive beneath him, fingers raking down his back and digging into his ass, dragging him in closer and tighter as if to merge them into one being. His mouth was just as busy, soft little sighs interspersed with sucking kisses, driving Methos mad. Legs squeezed and rubbed, urging Methos to move faster but he refused, fully invested in making the night last.

Sweat rolled down Methos’ nose to land in the pool at the base of Michel’s throat, a mixture that Methos had tasted again and again, mouth sliding over Michel’s skin. Michel had come twice and Methos was at the end of his restraint, body taut and in need of release. 

Before he could pull out, Michel’s lax hold on him tightened, arms and legs refusing to let go. “I want to feel you,” was murmured into his skin, just in front of his ear, and with a low groan, Methos gave in, ignoring his body’s protests when he became oversensitive. 

Michel shifted uneasily beneath him but he held fast, pressing against Michel’s ass. “I don’t want to leave you,” he muttered into Michel’s neck, not sure if the salt he tasted was sweat or tears. 

“You never will,” Michel promised him with a kiss to the side of his neck, and with a heavy heart, Methos allowed their body’s separation. 

They stayed entwined through the rest of the night, occasionally speaking but mostly touching, until the dawn’s golden glow filled the bedroom. 

~.~

“Her name was Rita Rosellini,” Michel explained as he cleaned the dried blood from his sword. “It was this she was after. My head was just a bonus.” 

Methos had gone to the store at Michel’s insistence, getting enough packaged food to last Michel several weeks at the Abbey. Cookware, camping gear, and several warm blankets had joined the food in the car, awaiting their departure. Upon his return, he’d found Michel seated with his sword across his lap, staring down at the flaking blood.

“She was one of the two who tortured you in your treasure room,” Methos noted without inflection. Michel’s nod of confirmation wasn’t comforting; the remaining attacker was still out there and neither of them knew if he was Immortal or not. 

“The man was her muscle, I only know him as Hector.” Michel hadn’t spoken about the attack that had brought about his Immortality, ignoring all of Methos’ subtle attempts to encourage him to open up. That he was doing so now, on the cusp of leaving Methos for however short a time, settled like a heavy rock in Methos’ stomach.

“Where did they discuss business?” Methos asked, not bothering to hide the bloodlust that was rising within him. 

Michel’s gaze was sharp. “His head is mine.” 

Pride welled in Methos at Michel’s courage to confront the man who had tortured him, but there was one serious drawback to Michel’s plan. “What if he isn’t Immortal?”

Michel’s hands stilled on the blade. He was silent for several moments, then continued cleaning his sword. “When was the last time you killed someone who wasn’t Immortal?” 

The question was asked without malice, without censure, yet it cut Methos just the same. “Over three hundred years. A man who beat his wife and children, which was accepted as normal for that time and place. I took exception.” When Michel didn’t comment, he added, “I was set before a firing squad and buried in a pauper’s grave. Took me two weeks to dig myself out. Suffocating every twenty minutes takes a toll.” 

Michel’s hands stilled again and he set the sword down. “There aren’t firing squads in Paris today,” he said as he rose, turning to face Methos. “If you’re caught, you’ll be sent to prison for the rest of your life. You’ll be discovered.” 

“Yes, the lack of aging or dying after fifty years or so might cast suspicion,” Methos answered wryly, immediately sobering as Michel stepped into his arms, burying his face against Methos’ neck. 

“Don’t. Not for me.” 

Methos pressed his cheek against Michel’s hair, hugging him tightly. “Allow me to learn if he’s Immortal. If he’s mortal, he’ll live out his hopefully short life to its natural end. But if he’s Immortal…”

Michel glared at him, fire blazing in his eyes. “He will wait.” 

It was on the tip of Methos’ tongue to argue, but in that instant, he saw his potential future. Michel returning only to find him imprisoned, exposed as an Immortal, threatening the lives of every Immortal on the planet. The fire bled out of him and he sighed. “He will wait,” he agreed. 

Methos tried to deepen Michel’s quick kiss, but his lover returned to cleaning his sword, sliding it into its scabbard before standing once again. “I’m ready.” 

Methos wanted to protest that _he_ wasn’t, but kept his expression carefully neutral as he drove them out to the Abbey. They set up Michel’s temporary quarters in one of the corridors off the main chamber where de Molay rested. It was irrational, but Methos felt that de Molay would watch over his protégé if Michel kept the statue in sight. 

After setting down the last of the boxes of food, Michel walked up behind him, resting his chin on Methos’ shoulder as his arms slid around Methos’ waist. “I feel safe here,” Michel noted, as if reading Methos’ mind. “It feels different than the last time I was here.” 

Methos squeezed one of Michel’s hands, lacing their fingers together. “Holy ground,” he said quietly, not wanting to disturb any ghosts who lingered. “You couldn’t sense it before.” 

“Is that what it is? It’s comforting,” Michel replied, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “I will commune with the spirits and learn what my path is to be.” 

Methos wanted to say so many things: _your path leads back to me. Watch your back. Keep up your guard. Come back with me now_. Instead he turned around, cupping Michel’s jaw and kissing him lightly. “Good luck.” 

Michel’s contented smile would have to sustain him for however many weeks or months they were separated. Before he’d even started the car, Methos knew it wouldn’t be enough.

~.~

Twenty-seven days later, Methos answered the phone. Michel’s voice shifted from his memories to the speaker, but it was somber and flat, not the excited, breathless tone he’d anticipated.

“Hector is dead.” 

Methos grabbed his coat, sword and car keys as he asked, “Where are you?” 

Michel’s monotone began to crack, raw emotion seeping through. “He waited for me. He sat at the entrance and taunted me. Heckled me. Threatened me.” A pained gasp. “Threatened you.” 

“Are you safe now?” Methos started the car and headed toward the Abbey, intending to keep Michel talking until he could get there.

Michel was silent except for the quick, sharp breaths coming over the speaker. “I don’t sense anyone.” 

Methos instantly thought of two dozen scenarios where Hector had brought mortal friends along as backup if he didn’t return. Not wanting to risk getting pulled over, Methos kept to the speed limit until he was well out of the city limits, then he punched it, but he still had at least an hour’s drive. “Go to the statue of de Molay. Put your hand over his heart like you did the day you showed me the chambers. Draw strength from him.” 

“I—it’s just a statue,” Michel protested, but it was weak and Methos heard the echoes as Michel headed further into the chambers toward the stone knights. 

“You know it’s more than that,” he urged quietly. “You alone were chosen by de Molay. You carry his sword. I’ll be there within the hour.” When Methos didn’t hear anything further, he assumed the connection had dropped as Michel went further underground, but then he heard a soft “ _oh_ ”. 

“Michel?” 

His voice back to full strength, Michel said, “You don’t have to come. I’m all right.” 

“You weren’t all right five minutes ago,” Methos argued, but eased off the gas pedal. “What about the Quickening?” 

“Unpleasant. He was a terrible person who did terrible things, but I held onto my beliefs and who I was. I was sick again,” Michel added ruefully. 

“That will pass with time,” Methos comforted him the only way he could; with his self-assured tone. 

Some of Michel’s confidence wavered. “What if I never get used to it?”

Methos knew what Michel was asking and it nearly tore him in two. “If you choose to live your life on holy ground, I will respect your wishes. I won’t interfere.” He paused to take a breath, but his voice was still unsteady as he added, “I’ll miss you.” 

Michel’s silence was deafening. “You wouldn’t join me?”

Methos blinked back tears. “I’ve spent far too much of my life hiding away on holy ground. Meeting MacLeod, and then you, has shown me that I’ve merely been surviving, not living. You’ve given me the gift of life, Michel, and I can’t go backward now. However much it hurts.” 

“You are leaving me before I can leave you,” Michel accused, anger, betrayal and so much _pain_ thick in his tone. 

“I’m making a choice for myself, as you’ve made a choice for yourself,” Methos said. “If at some future point we make new choices, perhaps we’ll find each other again.” The car had slowed to a crawl, the feeling in his legs all but gone. His entire body had gone numb, unable to believe that he was giving up his sliver of happiness in this lifetime. 

“I never meant for this to be a permanent separation.” Michel sounded odd, choked, as if he was holding back tears. 

As Methos was doing, sitting on an abandoned road halfway to the Abbey. “I know you didn’t, but…” He couldn’t find the words to finish his thought. Couldn’t find the fire to drive to the Abbey, throw Michel in the passenger’s seat, and drag him back to the barge. He had too much respect for Michel to do that, and loved Michel too much to go against his wishes. “I love you, Michel Previn.” 

It took several minutes before Michel replied. “I love you…Methos.” 

And the line went dead.

~.~

_Seven Years Later_

Methos was in Akaroa, exploring St. Peter’s Church, when he felt another Immortal. It had been over a year since he’d crossed paths with one of his own kind, but didn’t bother turning around. They were on holy ground; nothing could happen as long as they remained inside the church. 

“Adam.” 

The accent, the voice, the tone were unmistakable, but still, Methos turned around slowly, unwilling to believe that after seven years…“Michel.” 

Michel had cut his hair, now a respectable length just covering his ears. He was dressed in the fashion of the day, comfortable and casual. But his eyes…his eyes were so much older. They bore witness to the life Michel had experienced in their years apart. The fact that Michel had gone through those first formative years as an Immortal alone burned through him, though none of his turmoil showed in his expression. 

“The years have been kind,” Michel said with a hint of his flirtatious nature. 

“You’ve certainly grown up,” Methos replied, letting a wistful note carry in his tone. “Decided to see the world after all?” 

All trace of emotion instantly shuttered away, leaving Michel with as blank an expression as Methos was sure he wore. “I’m here with…my fiancé. We’re scouting wedding venues.” 

Seven years had merely dampened Methos’ love, not eliminated it, and he curled his hands inside his coat pockets to steady himself. “That’s…wonderful. That you found someone.”

Michel’s, “Thank you,” was hollow and distant, but his eyes couldn’t hide his true self. Within his blue-green gaze, Methos saw the apology, the pleading for understanding, the begging for forgiveness.

It was hardly the first time Methos had had his heart broken, though he’d always forget how much it hurt. He dredged up a small but sincere smile. “I’m happy for you. And you have nothing to apologize for. I wanted you to live your life. Falling in love is part of life. Is this your fiancé?” he asked as he looked past Michel to the woman heading toward them. 

Michel half-turned and held out his hand. “Angela.” Methos noted how their fingers fit together perfectly, remembering the last time he’d held Michel’s hand, in the underground chamber in front of de Molay’s statue. “Angela, this is my old, dear friend Adam. Adam, this is my fiancé, Angela.” 

Her smile was sweet and her handshake firm. “Michel’s told me about your studies in religious history. I’ve often wondered how true some of his wilder stories were.” 

“I assure you, none of them were true,” Methos replied with a quick smile. “We were both simply passionate about the Knights Templar. Debating religion is always a hazardous subject, but we managed to stay friends.” 

Gratitude and relief shone in Michel’s eyes, his smile soft as he agreed, “Yes, we have.” Angela’s hand on his arm dragged his attention from Methos and her whispered words had him nodding. “I apologize, Adam, but we have an appointment with the priest in a few minutes. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll catch you up?” Michel said to his fiancé.

Angela kissed Michel’s cheek and waved at Methos, both of them watching as she walked toward the front of the church. When Methos looked back to Michel, it was to an outstretched hand. “It is good to see you again.” 

Methos wanted so much more, but he took Michel’s firm grip in his own, not breaking eye contact. “Don’t make it another seven years,” he whispered, not wanting his voice to carry in the small church. 

Michel’s masked pain rose to the surface and Methos wanted nothing more than to kiss Michel until it was gone, but he let go and forced a smile to his lips. 

Michel searched his face as if memorizing it, seemingly frozen in place. Then abruptly, he grasped Methos by the arms, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and murmured, “I still love you,” before quickly walking to the front of the church, where his fiancé was speaking with the priest. 

Methos didn’t dare touch his lips or draw any attention to himself. He slipped quietly outside and around to the back, where he leaned heavily against the church and tried to remember how to breathe. 

Angela was mortal. He didn’t know if Michel had told her about his Immortality, or if she would find out in a disastrous accident or by Michel’s eternal youth. 

He wished them well. It was all he could do. Better that Michel explore all his options in his Immortal youth so he would know what he could handle later, or in case he lost the next challenge he faced and this was all the life he got to live. 

Methos rolled on his shoulder until his forehead was touching the warm wood and whispered, “I love you, still.” 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, squinted up at the sky and wished for the next seven years to pass quickly. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> [Now with a sequel!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427131)   
> 


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